Chapter Three – Being the Hero:

It was twelve hour flight, with a thirty minute stopover in Istanbul. The International Airport in Mogadishu was closed which meant a transfer to a domestic flight in Hargeisa for a rerouting to the K50 Airport, fifty-minutes outside of the capitol. It was eighteen-hundred by the time Willie finally arrived at his final destination, and he remembered to reset his watch to twenty-one-hundred to allow for the time change.

Although it was already dark, the warmth of the day had not yet dissolved into cooler night air and the dry, static desert heat slid over Willie like a cocoon as soon as he stepped out of the plane. Willie walked across the hard-packed dirt runway, illuminated by haloed and flickering lampposts, kicking up puffs of dust behind his heels. There was no wind and the air smelt like burnt rubber and airplane fuel.

The flight had been tortuous, hour after hour of being completely closed off from the rest of the world and SIS, what was happening with Neil, any developments on what Willie might find once he reached Mogadishu. He was certain that, once he reached the embassy, Bob would have been found safe and sound, and had better have prepared one hell of an excuse.

"You Caine?"

Willie stared into the patchy darkness and caught sight of a parked jeep and rumpled figure slouching against the hood. He could see the red glow of the embers at the end of the man's cigarette. The man didn't wait for Willie to reply before stepping forward, flicking the ash off the tip of his cigarette and blowing out a cloud of smoke, extending his hand across the distance.

"Pete Roach," he said in a casual, slurred drawl. "Wayward ink slinger, incurable bastard, and your bloody chauffeur."

Willie switched his bag from his right arm to his left and clasped Roach's offered hand. "Willie Caine." Roach's palm was calloused and dry.

"Wotcher," said Roach around the cigarette clenched between his teeth. He was a tall and gangly man, with shaggy ginger hair and a rusty dusting of yesterday morning's stubble on his jaw. His suit was ill-fitting and shabby and skin an unhealthy grayish tint in the poor lighting. He seemed the kind of man who would be incapable of performing day to day functions if not at least partially inebriated. "Might as well get going, Will. Wasted enough time as it is. I've got work to get back to."

"Right," said Willie, and went around the car to the passenger side as Roach climbed back behind the wheel.

The jeep was a two-door Willys CJ with no actual doors and looked like it had survived the 1950's, with a canvas top, shredded upholstery, and a rusted frame coated in a film of dust. The motor gave an unwilling sputter and whine when Roach started the ignition but eventually succeeded in turning over and the jeep juddered forward.

Roach tore his cigarette out of his mouth and flicked it out of the open doorway. "Welcome to our charming little corner of hell, Will," he said. "You attached to those government types at the embassy, are you?"

"Something like that," said Willie.

"Bloody muscle man, are you? Here to bring them all safely home to mummy?" Roach guided the jeep deftly around potholes and bumps even as they swelled unexpectedly out of the darkness. "You packing heat?"

Willie didn't answer.

Roach laughed and took both hands off the wheel in order to fish out another cigarette and light it. The jeep swerved dangerously but he caught hold of the wheel again in time to stop it from running off the road. He offered Willie a cigarette. Willie declined.

"Certainly come at a good time, Will," Roach continued, apparently predisposed to the newspaper man's curse of, having no external information near at hand, offering his own in order to fill the void left by silence. "Peak of the travel season, flora all wilted in the desert heat, local militia sporting submachine guns, civilians lying bleeding in the street, and our very own President Lutara leading us forward with a knife in hand and grin on his face."

Willie was halfway inclined to recommend Roach keep his flourishing descriptions for his column but held his tongue, listening for any useful bit of information that Roach might accidently let slip through his drivel.

"What about the men at the embassy?" said Willie. "Have they been threatened at all?"

"Lutara's keeping them under lock and key, isn't he?" said Roach, as though daring Willie to challenge him. "Soviets, of course, won't dare touch 'um. Don't want to cause any international incidents. But Lutara isn't letting any of them out of his sight. You'll have a hell of a time getting them down to the corner store, Will, let alone out of the country."

"Right, well, let me worry about that," said Willie tersely.

Roach laughed again and took a draw from his cigarette. "Too bloody serious, Will. Got to live life with a spot of humor – no telling when you might go to the wall."

"Have you met a man by the name of Robert Judd?" said Willie.

"Judd?" Roach echoed. "What, you mean little Bobby. He a boyfriend of yours, is he?"

"You've met him, then?" Willie pressed on. Willie, who as a rule could find something likable in nearly anyone he met, was finding Roach an especially difficult specimen to apply this philosophy to.

"Sure, I've met him," said Roach. "Cheeky little bugger. Ad nauseum hair and self-opinion. Didn't know how to leave well enough alone. Always down to pester me and the boys with some kind of problem."

"When was the last time you saw him?"

Roach tapped his finger contemplatively on the steering wheel. "Dunno. Must have been last night."

"Where was he?"

"Grabbing a beer at the club," said Roach offhandedly. Willie observed him carefully out of the corner of his eye. "Wanted to catch up on all the gossip. Got the impression he was just anxious to escape the rest of the political bores he'd come in with."

"When did he leave?" said Willie.

"Dunno," said Roach, and threw a conspiratorial grin at Willie. "Stoned out of my head, wasn't I?"

"Before or after the coup broke out?" Willie continued patiently.

Roach shrugged, eyes back on the road. "Dunno, I said. Might have been before. Maybe after. Dunno."

"I thought a reporter would have a head for details," said Willie.

"Listen, Caine," said Roach heatedly. "I was putting my feet up after a hard day's work. I couldn't have cared less about keeping my eye on your bloody boyfriend."

Willie didn't respond. He looked outside the open doorway, feeling the warm air spill into the jeep. They were driving a good deal faster than Willie would have preferred but he wasn't about to say anything to Roach, afraid it would just cause the man to accelerate further.

Roach finished smoking his cigarette in silence before chucking it out of the jeep's door like he had his first. He turned to Willie, flashed him a grin, and said, "Don't tell me you're another bloody spook, Will."

"Another?" said Willie, raising his eyebrows.

"Like your boyfriend Bobby," said Roach. "Nosing around like the worst of them. Saw right through him as soon as he got here."

"Did you?" said Willie.

Roach chuckled meanly. "Don't give me that. You watchers all have the same look about you, hunted like a bloody escaped convict. Too aware of your surrounding if you know what I mean. Asking too many bloody questions."

"Like reporters, you mean?" said Willie.

"You're not a reporter, Will," said Roach. "Neither was your boyfriend Bobby. Too clean, the both of you."

Rarely had Willie the occasion to meet Sir Roderick Hives, but he was now just as pompous and aloof as Willie recalled him in the past, blinking up at Willie from an armchair, fanning himself lazily with one hand while his stringy blond hair stuck to his forehead with sweat.

"Caine, goodness, it's a relief to see you."

"Yes, sir," said Willie.

"I trust this means we shall be leaving this dismal place in due course?" Hives paused to take a sip of his tea, apparently the climate never too hot to allow for an evening's steaming cuppa.

"As soon as possible, sir," Willie answered.

Hives sighed. "Glad to hear it, Caine. Certainly glad to hear it."

"Excuse me, sir, but I have to let home know I've arrived safely."

"By all means, Caine." Hives dismissed Willie with a flourish of his hand. The ambassador's sweet was a sparsely equipped room, albeit decorous in comparison to the rest of the embassy, with walls paneled in glossy wood and plush furniture. The rest of the embassy looked as if it was in the middle of a construction job that was never liable to be finished. Light fixtures hung naked from the ceiling, the walls were papered in spotty plaster, and floors were boarded with splintered and warped slabs of wood.

Willie made his way to the small and cluttered control room at the end of the hall, corners stacked high with decades' old paperwork, filing cabinets with their drawers bulging open, electrical wire slithering across the floor, and a single cloudy window set high in the wall near the ceiling.

The rotor machine was on a desk under the window, cleared off evidently after Bob's last use of it. It was an outdated model, Willie noted, and somehow wasn't at all surprised.

"You must be Caine, sir," said a shadow from another corner and Willie nearly jumped out of his skin. The speaker was a small man, bespectacled and mousy, just the kind of failed intelligence officer who would be shoved out of the way in a corner like Somalia.

"Right, Willie Caine," said Willie, recovering quickly and offering his hand.

"Mason, sir. Oliver Mason." He had the kind of triangular, shriveled face that might have belonged to any age at all, be it twenty or eighty. His thick-rimmed glasses magnified his eyes to twice their normal size.

"Oliver," Willie mustered a smile. "You the local piano player?"

"Sir?"

"You work the rotor?"

"Oh, yes, sir. Indeed, sir."

"Right, well, immediate to London, right?" Willie fished for a scrap of paper and pen among the mess and scrawled a hasty message for Hardwick (Arrived safely – Little brother still missing – Company found to be in good health – Any word on the prodigal? – Awaiting further orders) and stood behind Mason's shoulder as he fed it through the machine until Willie realized it seemed to make the man nervous and stepped back a pace or two.

"You met Bob Judd, did you?" said Willie as he waited for a reply from London.

"Yes, sir, nice boy," said Mason, smiling fretfully and with a touch of nostalgia that Willie didn't like because it made him think that perhaps Mason was already speaking in the past tense.

"When did you last see him?"

"Yesterday evening, sir. Had a bite to eat with me before heading off to the club."

"The club?"

"Grubby Western pub. 'Bout a twenty minute walk. Close to the port. Serves as the informal news bureau in the city."

"And that was the last time you saw him?" said Willie. "He didn't say what he was going for?"

"No, sir," said Mason, and shrugged. "Said he wanted to get a drink."

"Haven't got anything on hand?" Willie hated anything to do with damned investigating. He never knew the right questions to ask, when to ask them, or where to go next.

"Not really, sir. At least not anything that interested Judd. Said he wanted a bottle of hard and dirty British liquor."

Willie pinched the bridge of his nose and shut his eyes. Well, that certainly confirmed that it had been, indeed, Bob Judd who Mason had spoken to, but that had never been in question.

The rotor machine burst to life with a clatter and Mason jumped forward to receive the message. He handed the signal over to Willie when he was done. The signals were, of course, thrice encrypted, twice over in cryptogram and lastly with a rather elementary open code.

Proceed as previously directed – Do not worry about little brother unless convenient – Big brother still away and will possibly be entertaining cousins in near future – Expect to see you again soon.

It was Hardwick's own charming way of telling Willie to get the damned job over and done with and back home to Britain. Neil, though still evidently in Vietnam, at least continued to be unscathed and undetected by authorities. Word that the Americans may be stepping in was a welcome relief; it had been the CIA's bloody operation in the first place and they might at least put themselves at risk to bring Neil back in safely. The bit about abandoning Bob in favor of hauling Hives out of the embassy Willie decided to ignore for now.

"Bad news, sir?" said Mason and Willie realized he must have been grimacing.

"Nothing I didn't expect," Willie sighed. "Thank you, Oliver."

"Pleasure, sir."

Willie made his way back into the hallway and rapped his knuckles on Hive's room, entering at a word from within.

"News from London, Caine?" said Hives. He had moved from his armchair and was now perched on the edge of his made bed. Willie fleetingly wondered who had made it for him, as the maid service seemed to absent and he doubted that Hives would be capable of doing it himself. Perhaps it had been Mason.

"Yes, sir," said Willie. "We're to stay the night and leave first thing in the morning. We'll retrace my route, take a car west, fly to Hargeisa and then back home. The Soviets certainly won't risk intercepting us and Lutara would have to be mad to try anything other than check our papers and let us pass."

There had been armed guards at the embassy gates, curtesy of Lutara under pretense of protecting his esteemed British guests against any further rogue insurgents, but Willie had sensed a hidden menace in their demeanor while waiting for them to survey and return his passport on the way in.

"Righto," said Hives. "Er – Caine – it may certainly be my imagination, but to be perfectly honest I feel a touch uneasy about Lutara's attitude toward us. He seemed well – a bit cold when I first met him and if not outright hostile after this mess broke out. Almost like, well," Hives laughed, "almost like he blamed Britain for the coup. A damned bother that it should break out the second we arrived in the country, eh? Bit of an unfortunate coincidence, at least."

"Certainly odd, sir," Willie agreed.

"Listen, any word on your man Judd?"

"I was about to ask you the same question actually, sir."

"Oh," Hives frowned. "Well, I'm afraid I can't help you there, Caine. Disastrous that he should disappear right at this instant, though, isn't it? I do hope he's alright, of course, but it is a shame he couldn't have managed to stick it out – would have stopped you from having to come down, at least. I can imagine Hardwick's a bit pressed for hands now." Hives said it as though Bob's absence had been of Bob's own doing, something of which Willie was now nearly certain to be untrue.

"When was the last time you saw him, sir?"

"Yesterday afternoon, wasn't it?" said Hives distractedly. "Not as if I was his keeper after all. Rather the other way around, in fact. Although of course Judd was under no obligation to keep us under watch when we were inside the embassy."

"Yes, sir," said Willie. "And Judd didn't happen to mention to you anything he might be doing, off to go sightseeing, sniff around Lutara's palace?"

"Lutara's palace?" said Hives. "I should certainly hope not. We were here on a mission of diplomacy, after all, not one of your – what do you call them? – special operations."

"Of course, sir. Then Judd didn't say anything at all about what he might have been interested in?"

"Hardly, Caine. Kept to himself, I would say. Seemed a bit irritable, in fact, like he was unhappy that he'd been dragged along – completely preposterous, of course. What we're paying you lot for, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir," Willie agreed gravely. "Well, if you don't mind I think I might have a look around, see if I can't find out what Judd got himself into."

"I say, Caine, you don't think something unfortunate has happened to the lad?"

"I hope not, sir," said Willie.

Hives gave a little shrug of his shoulders and clicked his tongue. He continued as a second thought, "I'd better let you know, Caine – there's an eleven o'clock curfew on the place. It wouldn't do to upset our already rather riled hosts, eh?"

"Of course not, sir." Willie had found from experience that rarely were curfews cause for serious worry, especially in an unstable city like Mogadishu, where the armed militia would have much better things to do than make sure a simple British civil servant went to bed on time.

"And I do hope you don't plan on getting carried away with this, Caine," said Hives. "After all, if we are to stick to your plan of leaving in the morning than you certainly haven't much time or resources in which to launch a search party for Judd."

"No, sir," said Willie, and moved toward the door. "Though I'd better let you know, I have no intentions of leaving in the morning unless Judd is leaving with us."

The electric fan in the ceiling of the club sputtered and spun with an unceasing, thumping drone as it struggled to alleviate the stifled heat, but only seemed to rearrange the warm air from one side of the room to the other. The club was a dingy saloon in the basement of one of the abandoned seaside inns. It appeared to serve, in addition to the unofficial bureau headquarters for disgraced foreign correspondents of the theater, as a Western refuge for tourists and travelers stranded and bewildered by the unexpectedly hostile political climate.

There was a collection of ill-assorted tables and chairs scattered across the shadowy floor. At one sat several reporters over dusty bottles of beer and a dissected newspaper. Each had a page in hand, scanning it for more interesting stories then what they'd been left with after a general lull had descended over the city again once the coup had disbanded. A man with a woman in his lap was sitting in a dark corner. Two men at the end of the bar were sweating in gray suits and speaking in hushed voices, apparently stuck there while on business and now too nervous to go back to their hotel rooms to try to get some sleep.

There didn't appear to be anyone manning the bar. Willie wondered if the booze was being paid for in good faith, or if such a concept still existed in a deserted scrapyard like this.

Willie walked over to the figure of Pete Roach, dangling off a stool at the bar, shoulders slumped over the counter. Roach must have heard him approach for he turned and addressed Willie with a sloppy grin. "Evening, Will. Pull up a chair, grab a beer – on the house." He had a half-empty bottle in front of him and Willie knew it must have been warm. He wondered if the refrigerator was broken.

"Let me introduce you to my esteemed associate," Roach tossed his hand to his dark companion sitting by his side, a stringy African man with a mouth full of chipped teeth and wary brown eyes that had fixed themselves on Willie as soon as he'd approached and not moved an inch since then. "Mahad Okar. Mahad, say hello to Mr. Caine. Will, say hello to Mahad."

Willie nodded tersely. Okar stared back at him unblinkingly. Willie imagined he must have been Roach's local source of information from within Lutara's lair. Roach took a swig from his bottle.

"And say hello to the rest of the boys while you're at it." Roach gestured wildly over to the table with the reporters who were muttering over their paper, none of which looked over. "Any luck locating your boyfriend yet?"

"I actually had some more questions to ask you about that, Mr. Roach. I wondered if you wouldn't mind stepping outside…?"

"Call me Pete," said Roach and licked his lips as a bit of his beer missed his mouth and dribbled down his chin. "Draw up a chair, Will," he offered again. "Have a nice long chat with your new friend Pete. Tell us all your troubles, all your cares. Got a girl, Will?"

Willie ignored him, staying on his feet and letting Roach talk himself out of his rut, by which time Willie knew he'd be ready to listen.

"You know what we are, Will?" Roach continued unsteadily, head hung over his bottle of beer. "I've had a lot of time to think about it, sitting here day in and day out reporting the same bloody murders in all same bloody countries. And you know what we are?"

Willie wondered how many beers Roach had had in the brief time since he had left him in the jeep, and wondered how many more the man could take until he became completely unintelligible and of no further use to Willie. Okar stood silently by, still watching Willie with an expressions of clear resentment on his face.

"We're bloody vultures, Will. That's what we are. The lot of us." Roach's voice was quiet and slurred. "We make our living off death and destruction, flock to it in a fever, anxious to be the first to burry our ugly heads in the carcass. We hope the man right next to us will be shot so we can be the first to get a picture of it. I'd kill my bloody mother as long as I could write the story for the front page."

"I don't doubt you would, Mr. Roach," Willie answered.

A chuckle burbled unexpectedly out of Roach's throat. "To hell with you, Caine. To hell with your boyfriend. And to hell with my bloody mother."

Willie stepped forward until his shoulder pressed against Roach's back. Okar tensed as though afraid Willie was going to assault him.

"Mr. Roach," said Willie, quite calmly and quietly into Roach's right ear, "I'd like to have a chat with you outside, please. You asked me before if I was carrying a gun. I'll have you know that I am. And I'll also have you know that I don't have any qualms about pulling the trigger. Now, if you please…"

Willie did, indeed, have a revolver strapped into a shoulder harness and hidden under his jacket, but he did not, of course, intend to use it on Roach. However, for Roach, himself, to know that there was clearly no need.

Roach swore quite filthily but pushed himself off the stool and unstably stood. Okar grabbed hold of his elbow but Roach shook him off. Willie walked closely behind him, ushering him toward the door. They left the bar and ascended the short flight of crumbling concrete steps to the dark street above them.

"What are you playing at, Caine?" Roach demanded as soon as they'd stepped outside. The free night air, outside of the stuffy interior of the club, seemed to have brought Roach partially back to his senses. He addressed Willie with some measure of trepidation hidden under a rather shoddy attempt at bravado.

"Shall we take a walk, Mr. Roach?"

"Damn you, Caine, I don't know anything about your boyfriend Judd. I told you before!"

"I haven't asked you about Judd, yet," said Willie evenly, and waved his hand to indicate Roach was to begin walking. Willie fell into step beside him, marching at a brisk trot, and Roach, in his slightly addled state, panted to keep up. Okar tagged along behind them like a silent shadow. "But seeing as he's so near the surface of your mind…."

"Damn you, Caine, I don't know where he's gone! Probably got into a fight with a Soviet and is lying dead in an alley somewhere – bloody fool was in the search of a fight."

"Where did he go after he left the club on Wednesday night?"

"Dunno, I told you!"

They were very near the Mogadishu seaport and the salty smell of the ocean and gutted fish was heavy in the air.

"Did he leave before the coup broke out?" Willie continued, keeping his voice level despite every fiber of his being urging him to whirl around and smash his fist into Roach's foul mug.

"I was drunk out of my skull, Caine. I didn't see him leave."

"Before the coup, wasn't it?" Willie guessed.

"I don't know. Maybe."

"And you went with him, didn't you?"

"No I bloody didn't!" Roach jerked to a stop. His voice rebounded off the hollowed stone buildings, crackled on the stagnant air. Willie firmly took hold of his elbow and steered him onward, conscious of Okar's continued presence behind them – the three of them suspended in an uneasy bond of guns pressed to each other's temples. Willie knew he could make no move of excess force against Roach if he didn't wish to risk the same response from Okar.

"Where did you go?"

"I was in the club when the coup broke out. I don't know where your bloody boyfriend was."

"Did Judd suspect what was going to happen?" Willie had often known Bob to possess an almost uncanny insight while on special operations; it was not outside the realm of possibility that he had somehow managed to guess the impending split of the country's populace.

"Dunno, do I?" Roach spat. "Going on about his bloody delegation and their bloody good will packages and the bloody Soviet ship in port! Half out of his skull, rushing off to be a hero, wanting a bloody scoop!"

"Who was looking for the bloody scoop, Roach?" said Willie coolly. He could feel anger welling inside his chest and he fought to keep it down, unconsciously tightening his grip on Roach's elbow, nails biting into the other man's flesh. "Judd rushed off to be the bloody hero and you followed him out, hoping he'd lead you to the scoop?"

"Damn you, Caine. I've told you I don't know where he went!"

"And the Soviet ship in port?" Willie demanded. "That was before the coup, as well, was it? No wonder the Soviets were able to respond so quickly to the crisis."

The faraway patter of gunshots abruptly split the air and Roach jumped and cursed. Willie found himself curiously unmoved. He knew how to gauge the location of gunfire. The shots were a perfectly safe distance away. He wondered if the gunshots had anything to do with the suspected mass executions Hardwick had mentioned. It would be just like Lutara to carry them out in the dead of night.

"There's a curfew on, Caine," Roach hissed and licked his lips, eyes darting across the darkened street. "They'll shoot us both if they find us out."

"Like they shot Judd?" said Willie. "Is that what happened, the two of you dashed out into the street only to find yourselves in the middle of a bloody uprising?" Willie wondered, had it been daylight, if there still would have been bloodstains to be seen in the dusty roads.

"No, damn you. Judd dashed off to the port. The coup broke out before he got there."

"What was Judd looking for, Roach?"

Roach attempted to tug his elbow out of Willie's grip. "Get off me, Caine, you bastard."

"Then Judd wasn't shot during the coup?" said Willie, not able to feel relief, not able to quite feel anything. His heart was thudding insistently in his chest, clogging his ears, and making it difficult to focus on anything else besides Roach's ragged and frightened face. "What did happen to him, Roach?"

"Bloody Lutara's men got a hold of him," Roach gasped. "He was caught in the middle of it. Dragged him off to one of their bloody prisons."

Willie tried to sort through his scattered thoughts. Quite incongruently he found himself wondering if Neil was still alright, holed up somewhere in Vietnam.

"Where is he now?" Willie demanded. "Is he alright?"

Roach's mouth twisted into a gruesome leer, "Not bloody likely. Lutara distrusts all us Brits. And for good reason. Your bloody delegation came bearing gifts, didn't they? Lutara's not going to let them get away with that."

Roach's insinuation slipped cleanly into place inside Willie's head. "Christ," Willie breathed, pulling them both to a stop. "Christ, Roast. How did the coup get started?"

"It's a military uprising, you know that, Caine –"

"No it wasn't," said Willie. "They had help. The civilians rose up too. How did the civilians get a hold of their weapons?"

"You know how, Caine," Roach sputtered. "You know bloody how."

Willie released Roach's arm. "Send your man Okar to get information from Lutara's men," he said quietly, nodding his chin to the shadow of Okar behind them. "I know he's your contact. I'm not leaving here until I have positive word on Judd. You're going to get it for me."

"Or what, Caine?" Roach demanded, apparently not yet aware that Willie had released him.

Willie didn't answer him. He had no answer prepared. He pressed on stonily, relying on bluff as he had for the whole evening. "Meet me back at the club in the morning, Roach. Oh-eight-hundred, no later."

"Damn you, Caine," said Roach, and spat at Willie's shoes.

Willie didn't respond. Roach tugged away from Willie and snapped a word to Okar. The two of them slinked off, disappearing into the inky darkness almost at once. Willie stood there for a moment in the empty street, listening to the renewed cracking of guns in the distance.

If Neil Burnside had noticed the pretty pink flowers on the faded blue sheets on the bed, furthermore, had he been in the habit of thinking of his wife while on special operations, then he would have been reminded of Belinda, for the sheets were just like the silly, delicate things she was so fond of. However, in such that Neil neither noticed the pink flowers, nor was in the habit of thinking of anything else while on special operations, let alone Belinda, for risk of being distracted, Neil then did not take any further notice of the sheets before promptly ripping them into strips to use as a sling for his aching right shoulder.

He had dislocated it while fighting off a soldier of the PAVN who had happened upon Neil's position in the abandoned office complex with a convenient view into the courtyard of the Tan Anh Prison Camp. Neil rather thought he had startled the soldier just as much as the soldier had startled Neil. However, he was taking no chances that the soldier's purposes had been anything else but a random check, and Neil had naturally assumed the operation had been blown and proceeded calmly to plan B: over to the bolt-hole for recalibration and hopefully extraction.

Even so, if his cover had not already been blown by the time he'd taken the shot at Phạm, then it certainly would have been as soon as they found the body of the soldier. Granted, however, Neil was not entirely certain that the crack of his rifle butt on the soldier's back of the skull had killed him.

Phạm's, on the other hand, had been a clean kill. One shot, artless but neat, directly through the middle of his forehead. Neil had been able to see it all quite clearly from his perch in the window of the office building and, despite the minor hiccup of his discovery and subsequent abandonment of the plan, the op really had been pulled off quite well.

And that was the exact report, dammit, Neil thought as he gingerly eased his arm into the handmade sling, that he would give Hardwick whenever he got back to bloody England.

The heat was dense and sticky, drenching Neil's forehead in sweat. The bolt-hole was a two room, sparsely furnished flat on the top floor of an apartment complex on the outskirts of the city. Field men thrived on seizing the high ground, better sightlines, more time to prepare a retreat if an assault was noticed, and, as a rule, offering several more escape routes than a ground floor would.

Neil had counted three possible exits: back down the main flight of stairs, out back to a spindly ladder that served as a makeshift fire escape and must have been put into place during the war's merciless bombings, and up another short flight of stairs to the roof, where he could make a jump to the roof of the next building and escape over the skyline. And, if worse came to worst, he could always climb out of a window. All in all, the safe house was a well-stocked, well-positioned fortress, and reasonably secure insofar as he'd not yet had anyone from the PAVN knocking on, or down, the door.

The flat's main room served as a combination of kitchen, living room, and bedroom. It was equipped with a rickety gas stove against the wall, an empty bookshelf on which sat an archaic transistor radio, and a pullout couch that housed a thin and knobby mattress. A bathroom was curtained off from the rest of the room.

It was morning now and a glow of orange sunlight was beginning to thread its way through the blinds in the window that faced the outer street. Neil had been unable to sleep for the pain in his shoulder and had spent the night sitting in the dark so as to not attract any unwanted attention if a light showed from outside.

Neil had been there nearly eighteen hours, trying to formulate an extraction plan in the face of no certain help from the outside. He'd decided to try to stick it out for as long as possible until the hunt died down and the PAVN made the rational decision that obviously the assailant had fled the scene of the crime as soon as possible and was now a good distance from the city.

He had a map of the city spread across the small table by the stove. The map was scribbled over with ink, well-worn and creased, and Neil gave it his full attention, trying to plot his next course of action to continue out of the city and to the nearest coast. The can of beans he'd found on the shelf over the stove and opened for breakfast, sat beside his elbow, completely forgotten.

The quickest route, of course, would be south west to Ca Mau where he would be able to secure SIS contacts within the Vietnamese refugees with the aim of eventually being picked up by Singapore Station, who would undoubtedly be on the lookout for him. Ca Mau was over three-hundred kilometers from Saigon; it would take seven hours by car and nearly nine times as long on foot. That was, of course, ignoring the fact that the country – recently born from the toils of a very long war – would still be crawling with militia and patrols, even more so if Neil's assassination of Phạm had awakened a manhunt.

It was then that Neil became aware of the soft creak of shoes in the hallway. The walls in the apartment complex were paper thin. He had heard every word of the argument between the husband and wife next door the previous night, even if he had been unable to understand it. It had reminded him fleetingly of Belinda and his last argument, the evening before he'd been charged with the special operation and departed for Vietnam. It had been over something trivial, Neil recalled. In fact he couldn't even remember the specifics anymore. He had left before either he or Belinda had had the chance to apologize. Not that either of them would, of course, damned woman.

He waited for the footsteps to pass, thinking it must be one of the other neighbors in the apartment, leaving for an early workday, or a child off to school, perhaps two lovers separating after the long night. But there was something in the tread that immediately put Neil on guard, a soft, measured quality to the footfalls like someone who was deliberately trying not to be heard.

Neil quickly and silently folded his map and stuck it into his back pocket. He again cursed the uselessness of his hurt arm, damned that it would be his right. In field school they'd tried to teach equal dexterity in both right and left sides but Neil had never been very good at hand-to-hand combat in the first place.

He stood from the table and silently moved toward the door to the flat. He picked up the heavy knife he'd found by the stove and put aside the night before, unsharpened and rusted, better suited for slicing bread, but as his only available weapon after he abandoned his rifle, had better do. He braced himself against the wall by the door, next to the hinges so if someone did come in he'd have the advantage of jumping them from behind.

The footsteps in the hallway outside paused on the threshold of Neil's flat. He waited to hear them turn away and enter a neighboring apartment. Only one pair of footsteps, unusual if it should be a policeman or soldier – who wouldn't be likely to approach him without further reinforcements.

Neil held his breath, not making a sound, waiting patiently and feeling the wooden handle of the knife against his palm. Then, startlingly, the stagnant silence was snapped by the gentle rap of knuckles against Neil's door.

"Neil Burnside?" The voice was rough and American, perhaps from New England, a muted Boston Harbor drawl.

Neil didn't answer. He had heard of stranger ploys from enemy agents; he wasn't about to betray his position.

"Burnside? Robert Cheever, CIA. I was called in by your man Hardwick."

Neil cocked an eyebrow but remained silent for a beat longer. He should have known Hardwick would come up with something. Even so, he wasn't sure to be grateful to the man for sending help or irritated that he'd put the operation at risk by sending a man despite C's objections. He was glad, at least, that it wasn't Willie. It would have been madness to risk two Sandbaggers.

"Burnside?" Cheever whispered. "You hear me?"

"What does Hardwick look like?" Neil hissed against the door.

There was a brief pause as Cheever apparently collected himself from the surprise of getting a response. "Dammit, I don't know. I've been stationed in Hong Kong."

"Then who's SIS station chief in Hong Kong?"

"Matthew Peele? Only met him once or twice. Snobbish guys with a caterpillar on his upper lip, doesn't like to mingle with the natives. So are you going to let me in or am I welcoming committee for when the PAVN come by?"

Neil mutely unlocked the door and stepped out of the way as Cheever pushed it open. He kept his knife at ready, gripping the handle tighter as Cheever slipped inside, hands raised to shoulder height.

Cheever shut the door behind him and, hands still in plain sight by his head, turned to see Neil by the wall. His eyes immediately fell on the knife in Neil's hand and he smiled.

"Wouldn't want to get on the wrong end of that."

Neil stared silently at Cheever for a moment, surveying him carefully for any overt sign of deceit, and finally moved to place his knife atop the nearby bookshelf. Cheever took this as a sign of welcome and he put his arms down with a sigh of relief. He had an angular face with heavy eyebrows that gave him the appearance of being perpetually concerned.

"What happened to your arm?"

"Dislocated it fighting off a PAVN man," Neil answered shortly.

"You got found out then, did you?" said Cheever. "I didn't see any watchers outside."

"Doesn't mean they aren't there," said Neil. He had found that often they always were, even when one was not aware of them. The key was to always be wary, to act as if you were being watched at all times regardless. An intelligence man's greatest foil was becoming too comfortable. "Why did Hardwick send you?"

"To find out what happened to you. Or, if you're asking why send specifically me, I'd been stationed in Saigon up to a few months ago. I know the territory pretty well."

"The service didn't need to send someone at all," said Neil. "They should have trusted me to get out on my own."

"Well, you're welcome," said Cheever dryly.

Neil didn't reply. He went over to sit back down at his hastily vacated chair at the table. Cheever followed him and perched on the arm of the threadbare couch.

"You want me to fix that arm?"

"It can wait," said Neil.

Cheever shrugged. "Whatever you want. Probably hurts like hell. It won't get any better and we could have quite a hike in front of us."

"What's your plan then?" said Neil impatiently.

Cheever seemed to get the point and began talking business, speaking briskly, "I've got new papers for you, and a car parked around the next curb. We're headed north out of the city and as far as we can go safely in the car."

"North?"

"Figured it would be the last thing they'd expect. Besides, the ports down south are too well watched, what with the refugee's fleeing by boat."

"Alright," Neil wasn't very happy about it but he couldn't see any way to argue Cheever's logic.

Cheever continued as though he hadn't been interrupted, "I'm hoping to get to at least Gia Lai in the car, about ten hours away. I've got a guide from Kon Tum, an old friend from the war, who will meet us there. We'll abandon the car and head the rest of the way on foot, due south to Quy Nhon. Coastal city, about two-hundred kilometers so it will take us a day and a half if we hurry. We're French, okay? You speak French?"

"Of course," said Neil coolly.

"Good," Cheever nodded. "As soon as we get to Quy Nhon we're French business executives, pulling out of the country after our business has gone belly up during the war. In port there'll be a ship waiting to take us over to Honk Kong."

"And before we reach Quy Nhon?" said Neil.

"Before we reach Quy Nhon we're no one," said Cheever, "so we better not be asked."

Neil must not have looked impressed for Cheever continued, "Theoretically all you've done is killed one of their enemy's generals who they would have wanted executed anyway. By all rights they should want to shake your hand."

"Yes, but that's not to say the DRV wouldn't want get their hands on two foreign intelligence officers if they get the chance," said Neil.

"Right," said Cheever.

"How have they responded to Phạm's death?"

"Apparently Phạm died of wounds inflicted before his apprehension," said Cheever scathingly. "Let's just say the US weren't entirely convinced but there isn't much they can do except make disapproving noises. With any luck it will deter the DRV from carrying out any future executions."

Neil acknowledged this with a nod of his head.

Cheever got to his feet. "Well, our ship will be leaving port in four days' time. We'd better get a move on if we want to be on it when it leaves. I really hate to say it again, but – we'll be going over some rough country, your arm –"

"I've told you I can manage," Neil snapped.

Cheever's face darkened. "Don't get any crazy ideas about being a hero, Burnside. I risked my neck getting in here to save your hide and I'm sure of hell not coming out again without it."

Neil clenched his teeth together tightly, unable to pull his eyes away from Cheever's. He wondered how much Hardwick had told Cheever about him, if, in fact, he'd had a chance to tell him anything at all. Neil was well aware that it was the Service's opinion that not the least of Burnside's sins had been afflicting the section with the American obsession of drinking coffee. There was a long list of complaints against him from service personnel ranging from station heads to the secretarial pool, many of who seemed to consider him uncouth and irresponsible. Well, Neil Burnside may have been many things, arrogant and impulsive among them, but inept he was not, and he'd be damned if he let anything get in his way of completing an operation.

He cursed under his breath and started on the knot of his sling. "Alright, Cheever, might as well get it over with."